


Rematch

by copperbadge



Series: Chaseverse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, White Collar
Genre: Chases, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-27
Updated: 2011-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal and Sherlock's rematch in London was the high point of the International Law Enforcement Conference -- until Neal's tracker went dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Foxy, Dove, Junie, Anya, Spider, and tzikeh for beta reading. Oh, [the commas](http://sam-storyteller.dreamwidth.org/168848.html?mode=reply).
> 
> And yes, Madam Tussauds has no apostrophe. Blame the French.

_Two consultants were credited with catching the serial killer known as the Red Painter._

_One was very good at escaping, and the other was very good at chasing. Both of them were very, very good at running._

_This is what they talked about:_

Murder is not an intellectual pursuit. 

Murder, and the capture of murderers, is the only intellectual pursuit. -SH

In a world of pure analysis, maybe. But this isn't.

More's the pity. Still, you are inaccurate. -SH

Prove your thesis.

Imagine all works of art were ranked the same, from children's crayon drawings through Goyas and Monets. Imagine you had to create a work of art that said something, that was indeed art, but was by social convention indistinguishable (to the average police inspector) from a child's scrawls. Or imagine you had to pick that out of the mob. That is the act of murder and the act of pursuit. -SH

I call bullshit.

If that is your only rebuttal, I believe I win. -SH

I've been told that winning is an infantile concept.

Yes, but I still win. -SH

***

"Did you have anything to do with this?"

Neal looked up as Peter dropped a large white envelope on his desk.

"Almost definitely not," he said, without opening the envelope. "Why, did someone mail us our new case? Is this anthrax? The old rattlesnake-eggs trick?"

Peter gestured to the envelope. Neal opened the flap and drew out a sheaf of papers. After a few seconds spent perusing the cover letter, he grinned. "No. But I bet I know who did."

"Holmes," Peter said. Neal nodded. "He arranges immunity for your crimes on British soil, and now I'm guest speaker at a conference in London. Who does this guy _know?_ "

"People, I guess," Neal said, waving a hand dismissively. "Peter, this is big though. Invited keynote speaker at the New Scotland Yard International Law Enforcement Convocation. You'll be the face of the FBI."

"Poster boy. Great," Peter drawled. He sighed and produced a second envelope from his briefcase. Neal stared at it. "And here's yours."

"But I don't -- " Neal frowned, opening it, and skimmed the letter. "...pleased to accept your application to present _Policing From The Other Side: Criminal Views Of Law Enforcement And Informer Contact..._ " he started to laugh. "They want me to give a talk on crooks."

"You're not going," Peter said, turning to walk away to his office.

"Peter!" Neal rose and followed him. "You have to let me go with you. I'll wear handcuffs. I'll wear handcuffs attached to you. You can give me a twenty-foot radius. I promise I won't run. I'm going to be surrounded by cops. Where would I go?"

"Knowing you, you'd just see it as a challenge," Peter retorted.

"Peter, _please_. I can travel to the UK legally now. You could bring Elizabeth, show her the sights. And I'd be educating international law enforcement. I promised Sherlock a rematch in London."

"None of these are reasons I have to take you with me," Peter said. "Even if the FBI would let you travel."

"But you're going, right? I'll pay my own way. Look, our hotel is paid for. I'll buy a plane ticket myself."

"You're suspiciously excited about this," Peter observed.

"I've been stuck in four miles of Manhattan for years. I was in prison before that. I love Manhattan, but come _on!_ "

Peter sat back in his chair, gazing up at Neal, who looked like a teenager asking to take the car out on a Friday night. He was practically trembling with eagerness. "No."

Neal was opening his mouth to launch into an extended whine when Hughes appeared in the doorway. "Burke, you're going to London. Take Caffrey."

"Take a convicted felon on house arrest out of the country," Peter said.

"Long strings are being pulled," Hughes said. He glanced at Neal. "If you run, Peter won't protect you."

"Protect me?" Neal asked.

"Long strings," Hughes repeated, an ominous note in his voice. Neal nodded, eyes wide in a combination of fear and innocence.

***

"I shouldn't think this sort of thing would be your...thing," John said, as he and Sherlock walked into New Scotland Yard.

"It's somewhat lucky I'm a genius," Sherlock said. "How do you manage to communicate with other people?"

"You know what I mean," John said. "Conference on policing. Lot of plods, lot of technology you already know about. You're not really a people person, Sherlock."

"You've noticed, have you?" Sherlock asked with a smile.

"It does make itself evident after a while."

"Must we really go through a tedious explication of my motivations?" Sherlock sighed. "The police learn from criminals. Criminals learn from the police. Back and forth they go, couldn't be more boring."

"And you're above all that, are you?"

"Of course. I learn from the evidence. That's much purer. But it's wise to keep a hand in nonetheless," Sherlock replied. "Besides, I've arranged a reward for myself."

"God save me," John murmured. "What reward?"

Sherlock paused across the bullpen from Lestrade's office and nodded at it. John turned. Through the glass, he could see Lestrade shaking hands with someone, talking animatedly. All he could see was the back of the other man's head, but he looked familiar --

And then a third man, sitting in the chairs outside Lestrade's office, jumped to his feet.

"Sherlock!" Neal Caffrey yelled.

"God save us _all_ ," John muttered, as Neal bounded across the bullpen.

"Hi!" Neal said when he reached them, grinning huge and wild. Sherlock grinned back and shook his hand.

"Neal. Pawn to E4."

"Pawn to D6."

"I'll checkmate in forty moves. You're getting better," Sherlock said.

"I cheat," Neal answered.

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Caffrey!" a familiar voice barked. John saw Peter Burke leaning out through the door to Lestrade's office. "Get in here."

Sherlock followed without invitation, and John followed Sherlock as they crowded into Lestrade's office. Lestrade looked like he wanted mood stabilisers.

"Should have known you two bad pennies would turn up," he said to John and Sherlock. "Right, let's get this ceremony over with."

Neal hiked up his left trouser leg and placed his foot on the table. Burke held up Neal's tracker, which had come with them in his carry-on from Manhattan, and offered it to Lestrade. "Your jurisdiction, your honours."

This seemed to be some kind of police dance; Lestrade looked satisfied, as if this had been the right thing to say, and fixed the cuff around Neal's ankle. Neal dropped his foot, bounced briefly on his toes, and nodded.

"You're restricted to the conference grounds and hotel for now," Lestrade told him. "While you're in London, I'm in charge of your radius. You need to step outside of it, come to me."

"I can work with that," Neal said, grinning at Burke.

"Off you go," Lestrade said. "Check in tomorrow at eight for the conference. We're run off our feet with this bloody conference until then, so if you're going to get into trouble, for God's sake wait until tomorrow afternoon."

"Neal won't be getting into any trouble," Burke said, resting a hand on the back of Neal's neck. It looked like a tight grip.

"I was talking to him," Lestrade said, nodding at Sherlock.

***

Neal unlocked the door to his suite and tossed the keycard on the entryway table, dropping comfortably into the sofa in the small reception room. Next door, he could hear Peter and Elizabeth moving around, talking, unpacking: Elizabeth's pleased, excited voice and Peter's more reserved rumble.

"So," he said, as Sherlock shut the door and walked to the tall windows, looking down on London. "Do we argue about murder, or do we plot some trouble of our own? Where'd Doc go?"

"He elected to visit the bar," Sherlock replied. "Said it would be easier on his blood pressure. How's the van Gogh coming along?"

Neal cocked an eye at him. "Okay, I won't ask how you figured out I'm doing a canvas at the moment. Explain how you knew it was a van Gogh."

"You reek of linseed oil. Dark blue under your left index fingernail. Picasso would be too suspicious after the recent cache that was uncovered in the south of France, but you favour well-known artists people claim to know more about than they do. Van Gogh was a logical guess."

"Just keeping my hand in," Neal told him.

"Forgery is pedestrian."

"That's my alleged vocation you're slamming," Neal said, without any particular rancor. Sherlock looked like he was about to reply, but then he held up a hand, pausing. The door connecting Neal's suite and the one next to it opened.

"Did you do this?" Peter asked, looking annoyed.

"Do what?" Neal gave Peter his best innocent look.

"I'm pretty sure the conference committee didn't spring for suites," Peter pointed out.

"Maybe they understood the importance of keeping foreign visitors happy," Neal suggested.

" _Caffrey_."

"Nobody wants to stay in a hotel full of cops, Peter. The suites were open, I had a conversation with the concierge. Don't worry, we're not paying the difference."

"That's a reason not to worry?" Peter asked pointedly.

"Peter, is anything ever not a reason to worry with you?" Neal replied. "Just enjoy it."

Peter grumbled something incomprehensible, but he shut the door.

"It's a diversion, to be sure," Sherlock said, as though they hadn't been interrupted. "But it seems a waste of potential, not to mention time, especially when you don't plan to do anything with the forgeries."

"So what should I be doing?" Neal asked, plucking up an apple from a fruit bowl on the table and tossing it in the air. "I like painting. Forgery's more challenging."

Sherlock just gave him a dry "you figure it out" look, and returned to the window.

"All those thousands of little people, living their little lives," he said thoughtfully. "Why do they bother, do you suppose?"

"Anyone ever tell you you're gloomy?" Neal asked.

"Now you sound like John."

"Well, we do share a love of adventure. Speaking of which, how hard do we have to work on that Lestrade guy to get ourselves a rematch?" Neal asked. He waggled the tracker on his ankle. "I'm pinned down right now."

"Lestrade won't be a problem," Sherlock said. When Neal gave him a look, he added, "He's competitive."

"So it's just Peter we have to sweet-talk."

"I'm sure he's aware of the motive that brought you to London," Sherlock replied. "The police are so predictable, by and large. I leave him in your hands."

"Why am I doing all the heavy lifting?" Neal asked.

"Because I can't be bothered," Sherlock replied. "Strategy is dull. You have far more interesting assets to offer."

Neal grinned and took a pack of cards out of his pocket, shuffling one-handed. Sherlock sat down in a nearby chair and accepted the pile of cards he was dealt.

"So," Sherlock said. "The job with the Euros in Berlin. Tell me about it. Leave nothing out."

Neal tossed a pound in as ante. Sherlock rolled his eyes and did the same. Neal smiled approvingly.

"Alex and I were in Berlin planning another job -- not important -- but we went drinking with a guy who, it turned out, worked for a paper company. He was on vacation...."

***

John was multitasking in the bar, covertly watching a game on the bar television while he chatted up an Italian delegate to the conference when Lestrade elbowed in between them. The woman rolled her eyes at John over Lestrade's shoulder and turned away.

"I was getting on there," John said, reproachfully.

"Letting you loose amongst the international police community is a peril," Lestrade replied, ordering a pint.

"I'm not the problem," John said. "Sherlock might be."

Lestrade laughed. "And where is your worse half?"

"He and Neal had some catching up to do," John said. "Everything in place for Saturday?"

"Yeah. We're passing the news, word of mouth only. Should be a pretty good turnout. I have to say there's been more enthusiasm about this than last year's international law enforcement footie match," Lestrade said. "Eight different European nations at least want to watch Sherlock pin Caffrey down and humiliate him. The Canadians are pulling for Caffrey, oddly enough. Interpol seems torn. I think they think if they couldn't catch him, nobody else should be able to either."

"Sherlock offended someone in Vienna somewhere." John waved a hand.

"Ah, that explains it."

"She's married, you know," said a new voice. Both John and Lestrade turned, startled. Sherlock was looming over them, having approached silent and unnoticed.

"Who is?" Lestrade asked.

"The _Questore_ John was chatting up," Sherlock replied. "John?"

"I'm summoned," John said to Lestrade, and finished the last of his beer, tossing some cash on the counter for it. "Done playing fetch with Caffrey?"

"Enlightening afternoon," Sherlock said, as they left the bar.

***

The conference officially opened on Friday morning, and Neal was scheduled to present his talk in the late afternoon. Elizabeth, with a kiss for Peter and a promise of attendance for Neal, abandoned them to go sightseeing.

"You ready for your speech?" Peter asked, paging through his conference schedule.

"Piece of cake," Neal replied.

"Oh, that's right. You used to teach art history at Yale," Peter said.

"Well, I hear I bear a strong resemblance to a Professor George Baxter who used to teach there," Neal replied. "But, as you know, I don't have the educational qualifications for something like that. Anyway, after thirty Ivy League sophomores, a couple dozen cops don't scare me."

"Yes, traditionally your relationship with the police has not been one of fear," Peter drawled. Neal shot him a grin. "Are you going to the workshop on blood forensics?"

"No, science is boring. Anyway it overlaps DI Lestrade's thing on community crowdsourcing," Neal said, uncapping a pen and crossing out a series of presentations, seemingly at random. He caught Peter watching. "There are...certain things I can't attend," he said.

"Why?" Peter asked.

"I have a history," Neal hedged.

"I'm aware."

"Some of these people don't like me. At all," Neal said.

"Avoiding trouble? Not like you."

"I avoid trouble all the time!" Neal protested. "Sometimes trouble finds me. I dunno, you allegedly steal one little Antioch manuscript, they never forgive...."

***

Neal's lecture hall filled up fast that afternoon -- partly because his was one of the last talks of the day, but mostly because a lot of people wanted to get a look (or possibly take a swing) at the one who got away. John, who had slipped into the room during the previous talk and secured third-row seats, leaned out into the aisle and whistled shrilly when he saw Elizabeth at the back. She beamed and joined him, settling in next to Sherlock.

"How was your day?" John asked her, leaning around Sherlock.

"Tower of London to see the Crown Jewels," Sherlock recited. "Quick stop at St. Magnus the Martyr -- excellent choice, by the way, brilliant interiors -- lunch at Bertorelli, pesce spada, afternoon at the British Museum, cab to the conference centre."

John sighed. "Sherlock, we've talked about this."

"Sorry. Do go on," Sherlock said to Elizabeth, his tone one of long suffering.

"It's all right," she said, smiling merrily at Sherlock. "He nailed the highlights."

"We're working on small talk," John informed her. "Have a good time, did you?"

"I had a great time," Elizabeth agreed, then looked up and past him. "Hi, sweetie!"

"Hey, hon," Burke answered, squeezing past them to sit next to her. "Have a good day?"

"Too much lemon on the swordfish," Sherlock murmured.

"Sherlock!"

"It was fine." Elizabeth kissed him on the cheek. "Excited?"

"More worried than excited," Peter said. "Neal really likes captive audiences," he added, as Neal passed them on the way to the front of the room. He didn't have a laptop, or even a flash drive; he spoke a few quiet words to the tech guy standing at the front, clapped him on the shoulder, and sent him hurrying away. The room settled slowly; John craned his head around and saw several people standing at the back of the room for lack of seating.

"Good afternoon," Neal greeted them, leaning on the little table at the front of the room, legs crossed in front of him, tracking anklet visible. "My name is Neal Caffrey. I am an alleged international art thief and a convicted felon. Let's start with a show of hands," he said, pushing himself upright. "How many of you have, in the past, worked on an investigation where I was a suspect?"

About half the hands in the room went up.

"Wow," Neal said. "Are any of you armed?"

Laughter rippled around the room.

"Okay. Anyone study my casefile?"

A few more hands went up.

"Now, raise your hand if your work on my file led to a conviction."

Every hand went down. John saw Elizabeth elbow Peter.

"Aw, c'mon Peter, put that hand up," Neal said. Peter rolled his eyes and raised his hand.

"That's the ratio of people who have chased me to people who understood me well enough to catch me," Neal said. "We all know what people like you think about people like me. Today I'm going to talk to you about what people like me think of people like you. Now, this seems," he said, beginning to pace back and forth along the little raised stage, "like an excuse for me to insult a bunch of cops to their faces. I like to think of it as helping you reduce my alleged competition. So!" he rubbed his hands together. "Let's talk about law enforcement."

***

Peter genuinely liked Greg Lestrade. They were both law enforcement and they weren't ever going to compete for jurisdiction, which engendered a spirit of fraternity. Especially since Lestrade had none of the usual American cop disdain for Feds.

"Burke," Lestrade said to him, as they stood together near the front of the room, watching the crowd file slowly out of Neal's talk. "How much of that was the truth?"

"With Neal? Difficult to tell. Some of it I can vouch for," Peter replied. Nearby, Neal was bestowing post-talk charm on some of the attendees. "I'm never sure what side he's really on anymore."

"I know exactly what you mean," Lestrade replied.

"At least Sherlock isn't going to try and steal a priceless map of Vinland," Peter sighed.

"Well, he would if he thought he needed it. I've been shop-talking all day, though. I'm for dinner. You and your wife care to join me?"

"Love to," Peter said, as Neal deftly extricated himself from a little knot of people and joined them.

"Did you like it?" Neal asked, beaming. "I think I killed. DI Lestrade, good to see you again."

"You were great, sweetie," Elizabeth said, pushing through to join them. She gave Neal a kiss on the cheek, which he accepted as a due reward. "Nice timing on the jokes, and I say that as someone who has suffered through way too many speeches for this lifetime."

"El, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," Peter said. "DI Lestrade, my wife, Elizabeth. She's here to stare at your landmarks."

"We do try to impress," Lestrade replied, shaking her hand. "I was just inviting you and Agent Burke to dinner."

"Great! I'm starving," Neal said. Peter gave him a dirty look. "What? Sherlock knows this Italian place. I bet we could invade it. Sherlock!" Neal called, waving at the back of the room. He held up his hand and signaled, three fingers twice. There was a brief pause while Sherlock conferred with John, and then everyone's phone beeped at once.

"I don't know how he does that," Lestrade muttered, taking out his phone. Neal had his out too, and Elizabeth was digging through her purse for hers. Peter didn't even bother.

"Table for six in fifteen minutes," Elizabeth read aloud. "That's nice of him."

"Probably Doc's doing," Neal put in.

"I'd better call about your anklet," Lestrade said to Neal, who gave him a bright look.

Angelo's was a small restaurant, a pleasant few minutes' walk from the conference centre. Apparently Sherlock had once done the owner some kind of favor; when they arrived there was a long table set up for them, and Angelo paid special attention to John, which seemed to fluster him. The food was good, though, and there was plenty of wine. Neal and Sherlock hadn't stopped talking the entire walk there, and were still talking now, heads bent close together over the table.

"He's like a dog with a chew toy," Peter said.

"Which one's the chew toy?" Lestrade asked.

"Good point."

"This is nice," Elizabeth announced, leaning back with a pleased look on her face. "I have an entourage. Not every night I get to have dinner with five handsome men."

Peter raised an eyebrow. She smiled and patted his arm. "Don't worry, you're still number one. Oh! Though I need to ignore you; John said he'd show me what sights to see tomorrow morning," she added, turning to John, who was seated on her other side and looking annoyed that Sherlock was ignoring them.

Lestrade turned to Peter, while Neal and Sherlock furiously debated the greatest crime of their time ("That's so typically American." "Elitism won't get you anywhere!") and Elizabeth and John studied a tourist map. "Our lads have a little game planned," Lestrade said, in an undertone.

"I thought they might," Peter sighed. "Did you hear about the New York chase?"

"I have to say, it sounds like something to see. And better supervised than at large, I suppose."

"Don't encourage them," Peter remarked, sipping his wine. "Last time, they terrorized a couple of cops, raided a gay bar, and ended up in a bomb shelter."

"Who won?"

" _I did_ ," Neal and Sherlock said in unison. Lestrade looked up sharply. Peter just rubbed his eyes. Sherlock gave Neal a significant look.

"See, clearly we need to establish my supremacy once and for all," Neal said to Peter.

"I'm not comfortable letting you run loose in London," Peter replied.

"Are you going to let Sherlock claim he's better than you?"

"Are you seriously going the appeal-to-my-pride route?" Peter shot back.

"I have about five other backup routes if you want me to try them all," Neal said. "Number two is convincing Elizabeth to make you say yes."

Peter leaned back and regarded them. He glanced at Lestrade, who looked a little too innocent.

"Your beat, your call," he said, shaking his head. "I'm only responsible for making sure Neal doesn't hop a plane to some island with no extradition treaty. Nobody said he had to come back alive."

"Thank you," Neal said pointedly.

"Right," Lestrade leaned forward. "Ground rules."

"They're so obsessed with rules," Neal said to Sherlock.

"Tedious but necessary," Sherlock replied.

"The both of you be quiet," Lestrade ordered.

"Let me save you the trouble," Sherlock offered. "No real crime, no civilians involved, injuries are an automatic end to the game, we both wear trackers and wires -- "

"Wires!" Peter said. "Was that your idea?" he asked Lestrade, who nodded. "Damn, I should have thought of that last time."

" -- and I'm willing to offer a seven-minute head start," Sherlock finished, looking annoyed. Neal gave him a curious frown. "Well, you're playing on my patch now. Two minutes more seems apt."

"I _have_ been to London before," Neal said.

"Don't take it if you don't want it."

"No, I'll take it, I have no pride."

"Obviously -- "

"Children," Lestrade said, and they both settled down. "You two decide stakes?"

"I'm playing for the Crown," Sherlock said. "When I win -- "

"If you win," Neal interrupted.

"I want what you nicked from the Tate Modern," Sherlock finished.

There was a long, awkward silence around the table.

"That's never been proved," Neal said.

"No, of course not. They're not entirely certain what's gone missing, in fact," Sherlock answered. "But 'if' I win, I want to know which items are forgeries, and I want the whole lot of them returned."

"Not that I know where they are," Neal said carefully, "but if you win, I'll look into recovering those for you."

"And your stakes?"

Neal considered him. "Eight hours of your time."

Sherlock tilted his head.

"I want to do a portrait. If I win, I get eight hours of you holding still for me, for a portrait." Neal cast a sidelong glance at John when he snorted in amusement.

"The only time Sherlock's still for that long is when he's sulking or asleep," John pointed out.

"I'm sure he'll sulk if I win," Neal said loftily. " _And_ you pay for supplies," he added to Sherlock.

Everyone looked at Sherlock. He seemed to be weighing eight hours of inactivity against millions of dollars in art.

"Done," he said finally, offering his hand. They shook on it across the table.

"O-kay." Lestrade rubbed his hands. "So, tomorrow night, six o'clock. We'll be monitoring you from the convention auditorium. You'll have a three-and-a-half kilometre radius -- "

"What's that in American?" Neal asked. It was probably impertinence. Peter knew Neal could do complex calculations with speed, and he'd know how to convert metric to imperial.

"Little over two miles," Lestrade supplied. Neal looked satisfied. "I'm putting the north side of Blackfriars at the centre."

"Nice," Neal said. "National Gallery, British Museum -- "

"The Dungeon, the Tower..." Sherlock finished for him.

"Is this some kind of trash talk?" Elizabeth asked John.

"I'm not entirely sure," he answered.

***

Saturday was Peter's turn in the sun, giving the conference's keynote address at the all-attendance luncheon. He'd be the first to admit it lacked the flair of Neal's lecture, but ethics and management and their impact on international legal politics were important subjects that deserved at least a PowerPoint presentation. And anyway, he got a few laughs and made two really bad puns with a straight face, so he called it a success.

The disadvantage of being a lunch speaker was, of course, that you didn't get lunch. By the time he'd finished and joined Elizabeth at the table, he was starving, and all the food was gone. He lingered long enough for Elizabeth to tell him he'd done well, and for Sherlock to offer the unsolicited opinion that it was "Anthropologically not entirely boring" while Neal elbowed Sherlock in the ribs, and then he went to find the nearest place to get something edible.

"Was there anything else you wanted to go to this afternoon?" Elizabeth asked, paging through his conference booklet while Peter devoured a steak at the hotel restaurant.

"Couple, but I'm missing one as we speak, and I'd have to leave halfway through another one to get to the auditorium in time for tonight," he said. "Neal and Sherlock are a go at six; we have to have them wired and do a GPS check an hour beforehand."

Elizabeth gave him a smile. "It's not an op, you know."

"It's Neal on the loose in an unfamiliar city. I can't shake the feeling this is a bad idea."

"Your gut?" she asked. Peter shrugged. "Well, if you're going to be up all night, maybe you should take the afternoon off. Get some rest."

"It feels like I'd be wasting an opportunity," Peter said.

"Like skipping class?" Elizabeth's smile widened. "Trust me, the principal won't care."

"Are you sightseeing this afternoon?" Peter asked. "Wait, you're shopping, right? You said you wanted to shop."

Elizabeth gave him a look that said he was being stupid. Admittedly, most of his mind was on the steak right now.

"I'm skipping class too," she said significantly.

Peter paused. "Oh," he said, and fumbled to signal for the check.

***

Being a friend of Sherlock Holmes was like having a backstage pass to reality, Elizabeth reflected as she watched Peter and DI Lestrade do GPS tests on the auditorium stage.

She wasn't sure she could really consider herself his friend; John Watson obviously could, and she had yet to meet anyone Neal couldn't make friends with, but Sherlock was a little catlike otherwise -- self-sufficient and wary. Maybe not "friend", then, maybe "associate" -- but either way, he just saw so much. It was like Peter turned up to eleven, and it had taken her a while to get used to Peter's own investigative skills. Sherlock saw everything and made remarks about most of it out loud, which was amusing for her -- but it sometimes felt like he was pulling back some kind of veil over the unpleasant inner workings of the world.

Neal and Sherlock were standing just below the stage with a couple of techs, one of them checking Neal's anklet while Sherlock adjusted the fit of the small GPS unit strapped to his arm. Sherlock's GPS also had an audio transmitter, though it was a clumsier model than the watches Peter and Neal used at work; Neal was fussing about having a wireless transmitter taped down to his collarbone, making the tech adjust the fit a few times before he was satisfied with the way it sat under his black turtleneck, the microphone resting just below his ear. He was in full cat-burglar gear, all black and nearly skintight. Which, Elizabeth noted, wasn't exactly hard on the eyes.

"Sound check, test one two," Neal's voice rang around the mostly empty auditorium. "Nice," he added, sounding pleased. At the back of the auditorium, a door opened and shut quietly. "Sherlock?"

"Test," Sherlock said tersely. One of the techs adjusted the volume slightly. Elizabeth turned to see who had come in; it was John, along with an older woman who was looking around her curiously. "Right. Any other poking and prodding needed?"

"Got you both on the map," Peter called, as the big auditorium screen flickered to life with a white-on-black layout of London. In one of the lower corners, two green dots glowed brightly.

"This is a massive misappropriation of Yard funds," Lestrade remarked, not as if he minded, just as if he wanted someone to be aware. Elizabeth laughed. The woman who'd entered earlier made her way down to the front row, taking a seat a few down from Elizabeth. When she was settled in, John left her there and walked over to Sherlock.

"I think it's edu -- " Neal broke off over a whine of feedback. He cupped his hand over the wire, and one of the techs tapped a few keys, switching the mics off for now. "Educational. How many people get to watch this kind of pursuit in real time?"

"And that's what I will be putting on the expense report," Lestrade answered. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

"Hello, Detective Inspector!" the woman near Elizabeth called, and then turned to her and offered her a small paper bag. "Hello! Would you like a roasted nut?"

"Thank you," Elizabeth said, taking a few. She studied the woman curiously; she didn't look like a police officer, though she did look very excited. "Are you here for Neal or Sherlock?"

"Oh, Sherlock. He's a dear, isn't he? He and his Doctor Watson rent from me." She gave Elizabeth a proud look. "I'm here by Doctor Watson's special invitation. Martha Hudson."

"Elizabeth Burke," Elizabeth replied, shaking her proffered hand. "I'm a friend of Neal's."

"From New York! How exciting."

"It has its moments," Elizabeth replied.

"Are you enjoying London?"

"I get the feeling I'm about to enjoy it a lot more," Elizabeth said with a smile. 

"I always say travel broadens the mind," Mrs. Hudson agreed.

People began to trickle in then, sidling through the doors as only cops know how; Elizabeth was intimately familiar with the Guilty Police Sidle. She kept up absentminded chat with Mrs. Hudson while Peter had a final few words with Neal and Sherlock. It was just starting to get crowded when the pair of them walked off, quietly, without any fuss.

"All right," Lestrade said after another few minutes, stepping up to center stage and holding up his hands for silence. "You all know why we're here, and I'm trusting everyone here knows how to keep their mouths shut."

"He's so commanding," Mrs. Hudson whispered to Elizabeth. "Mind you, our Sherlock does need a firm hand now and again."

"I know just how you feel," Elizabeth whispered back.

"You have two very simple rules," Lestrade continued. "Don't talk about the paper chase outside of this room, and don't throw food inside of it."

A ripple of laughter washed over the audience.

"The rules of the chase are for the safety of all involved. Mr. Caffrey is to commit one crime per hour," Lestrade continued, putting audible airquotes around 'crime'. "He is to leave sufficient evidence for Mr. Holmes to follow. Mr. Caffrey's task is to evade capture," Lestrade said. "Mr. Holmes's task is to have Mr. Caffrey in custody at six tomorrow morning. Capture at any other time is not a win, unless Mr. Caffrey remains in Mr. Holmes's custody for the duration of the chase. Any serious injury is an automatic end to the game. Agent Burke and I will arbitrate any disputes. Agent Burke?" 

"Turn on the wires," Peter said to one of the techs, and suddenly there was a soft noise in the auditorium. "Say hello, Neal," Peter said, into his phone.

"Hello, everyone," Neal said, sounding chipper. "Sherlock, say hi."

"Hello." Sherlock did not sound chipper, but then Elizabeth had serious doubts he ever could.

"Point of departure is the north end of Blackfriars Bridge," Lestrade said. They could hear the two men getting out of a car, doors slamming behind them.

"We're ready when you are," Neal said over the wire. There were a few seconds of silence while Peter watched the clock on the auditorium screen.

"Neal, go," Peter said.

"And gone," Neal answered. There was the sound of heavy breathing, and then Neal's voice again. "Man, I love this city."

***

Neal liked London a lot. He hadn't spent much time there in comparison to some places -- New York, Tokyo, Amsterdam -- but what time he had spent had been very satisfying. It was old and crammed with people, which made it feel pleasantly like Manhattan, and it had all those _museums_.

Being a crook in London was getting harder, of course. It also had all those surveillance cameras, one on every street corner it seemed like. If Neal were committing real crimes, he'd be worrying a lot about those cameras. As it was, they were just a fun excuse for him to commit a few of the night's fake crimes in disguise.

By habit, when he was working the shadier side of the law, he didn't talk much unless he had to charm someone. Now, though, he was aware of the wire taped to his chest, and he felt he owed them a little entertainment.

"When I came to London the first time, I was here specifically for the National Gallery," he said, making a note of some road construction nearby, for when he circled back. "Well, that and Madame Tussauds. Just because it seemed interesting, I guess. I was a young American tourist, the kind native Londoners probably hate, if the way we hate them in New York is anything to go by. Now, the National Gallery is tempting, but last time -- " he grunted as he jumped a low fence, " -- I missed the British Museum. Always regretted that. I have to say I find their Reading Room pretty epic."

He kept up his prattle as he ran, not slowing for a second when that seventh minute ticked past and Sherlock would have been given the signal to go. After that he stopped talking quite so much, so that they could listen in to Sherlock as well.

"Okay, gotta shut up now, this part's tricky," he said, as he approached the British Museum. "Time to climb."

Free-climbing urban buildings wasn't easy, but then rock-climbing anything with convenient handholds and toe-grips was for amateurs. Neal gazed up at the wall of the museum, spat on his hands (mostly for show) and started on his way towards the great dome of the museum's Reading Room.

***

"Is he seriously going to climb the British Museum?" Lestrade asked. On the map, Neal's dot wriggled a little but stayed more or less in one place. "Your lad's bloody insane."

"Unfortunately, that's what makes him so good," Peter sighed. Sherlock's dot, obviously in a cab, was heading steadily towards Neal's dot.

"Get him!" someone in the audience called, in a French accent. There were a few cheers.

Sherlock's dot went zooming past the museum.

"No! Look behind you!"

"This is better than panto," Lestrade observed.

"What's panto?" Peter asked. Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock corrected pretty quickly; they could hear him over the speakers abruptly tell the cab driver to stop and turn around. A few minutes later he was observing the slight traces of Neal's passage up the wall.

"Kind of him to leave his paper trail on a high ledge rather than the dome," Sherlock remarked. "A trifle condescending, though. Hm."

Neal, meanwhile, was humming _A Foggy Day_ as he descended the other side of the museum. Peter took out his phone.

"Hi!" Neal answered, on the second ring. "Don't tell me Sherlock's surrendering already."

The audience laughed.

"Having fun?" Peter asked.

"Yes, Peter," Neal said warily.

"Good. Stop humming."

"Yes, Peter," Neal sighed, and Peter hung up.

"Is Berkeley Square in the radius?" Peter asked Lestrade, peering at the map.

"Yeah, but damned if I know what he'd do there," Lestrade replied. Sherlock was muttering to himself, trying to decode where Neal would go next.

"Taxi!" Neal called, over the speakers. "Berkeley Square, please."

"Guess we'll find out," Peter observed.

Using wires as well as GPS to track their progress made the whole thing much more entertaining. Neal liked to give little lectures on the places he was hitting, and Sherlock tended to wield a certain dry wit when questioning bystanders. Neal's target at Berkeley Square turned out to be Maggs Brothers, an antiquarian bookseller -- "It's the most haunted building in London," Neal said proudly, as he picked the locks on the bookstore.

Ten minutes later, they heard Sherlock laugh.

"The bastard's left me a comic book," he said, and there was a rustle of pages.

"Sherlock, language," murmured Mrs. Hudson.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock added as an afterthought. Mrs. Hudson beamed.

After a tea break at a nearby cafe -- and a hasty retreat when Sherlock got too close -- Neal's next target was _Buckingham Palace_. Neal took a cellphone picture from some ledge high up on the palace and emailed it to Peter, but it was too dark to make out much.

"If Batman can do it, I can do it," Neal announced, and they heard soft noises as he started to climb down again.

***

Neal knew Sherlock was closing in, but he was pretty sure he had at least ten minutes before he'd need to run for his life. He was planning to blow nine of them shopping.

Last time he was in London, he'd used this one little vintage store for all of his disguises, and shipped a few prime pieces back to Mozzie as well. He was pleased to see the wall of second-hand wigs was still in place, although there was a rack of skinny jeans sitting in front of them, offending him with their existence.

"C'I help you?" a sulky-looking boy behind the counter asked. He was wearing a pair of jeans that had clearly been taken from the rack of doom.

"I strongly doubt it," Neal replied, gravitating towards the hats. He'd never properly appreciated hats before Byron's hand-me-downs.

He'd never even considered the possibilities that bowler hats offered to a man of taste and criminal inclination, but they had a certain appeal. Sherlock looked like the kind of guy who could wear a bowler hat well, and Neal had spotted a really fine example of the breed in a corner of the hat racks. He slunk past the racks of fedoras and newsboy caps at the front, crouched down, and rescued the bowler from its perch of iniquity.

The boy behind the counter snorted when Neal brought it up to the register. "Really?"

"It's a gift," Neal protested.

"For someone you don't like?"

"Oh, no," Neal said with a grin. "Listen, my pal's gonna show up here in a couple of minutes, asking about me. I want you to give him this," he indicated the hat, "and these," he handed the kid a few slips of folded paper (he'd written _Counterfeit bills!_ on them in Sherlock's handwriting, for laughs), "and this is for you," he added, slipping a ten pound note into the kid's palm.

"You mean him?" the kid asked, tipping his chin at the window. Neal turned just in time to see Sherlock gazing through the window.

"Aw, crap," he moaned, already moving. The kid didn't even try to stop him as Neal vaulted the counter and bolted through a bead curtain into the back room, stacked high with boxes of old clothing and the odd pair of shoes. He pulled down boxes behind him, blocking the way as he ran. He heard a muffled "No you don't!" and what was probably the thump of skinny-jeans-boy being flung aside by Sherlock.

He still had the bowler in his hands and technically he'd paid for it. He gripped it by the brim and turned, arm arcing outwards as he pulled open the back door. He released the bowler with a flick of his wrist, flinging the hat into Sherlock's face right as he hurdled a stack of fallen boxes. Sherlock flailed, a sight Neal felt he would cherish forever, and Neal slammed the door behind him, holding it shut with his foot braced against the wall.

Sherlock cursed on the other side of the door for a few moments and then, apparently assuming Neal had jammed it, kicked the door once and fell silent. Neal waited a count of eight before relaxing his grip on the door. Sherlock was probably circling around. He opened the door to creep back through --

"Oh _shit_ ," he blurted, as Sherlock loomed out from the shadows inside the building. Neal scrambled backwards. Sherlock's hand caught the very edge of his sleeve, and the fabric slid through his fingers.

Both of them overbalanced, but Neal pivoted hard on one heel and let the momentum carry him along the alley a few feet before he got his equilibrium back and ran like hell, Sherlock fast on his heels.

In a distance contest, Sherlock could probably outpace him, but Neal was really good at running. At a sprint he could put some distance between them, especially in a crowded street. He darted down another alley, jumped for the bottom of a fire escape, and managed to disappear against the brickwork as he dangled from the bars, his arms killing him.

He waited until Sherlock was around the corner at the other end of the alley before he dropped silently to the ground again. He wasn't sure precisely where he was.

Clothing store, clothing store, empty storefront, pub...

Neal grinned. There was a little sign hanging above one of the clothing stores: _Neal's Yard._

"Hey, can you guys see where I am?" he asked, amused. "I think I'm showing great restraint in not stealing a couple of signs around these parts. Man, that was close. I need a drink," he added, heading south towards a pub.

***

"Undoubtedly he thinks he's clever," Sherlock said over the speakers when he realized where Neal had hidden himself. Neal's wire was playing the kind of ambient noise generally associated with a pub on a Saturday night.

"Come on, Neal, get out of there," Burke murmured, just as Neal thanked the barman and announced that it was time to move on. John grinned at him.

"Sherlock knows London like nobody I've ever met. He's going to catch him," he told Burke.

"Neal just outpaced him in a foot race," Burke pointed out.

"Long time to go yet," John retorted, because it did gall a little that, at one point, Sherlock had run straight past Neal.

In the meantime, it almost looked like Neal was stalking Sherlock. They were both circling a single block, but just before turning a corner right into Sherlock, Neal broke off and headed south towards Waterloo Bridge.

"Crossing the bridge!" Lestrade called out, and there were vague cheers from the audience. He leaned against the tech table on the stage, turning to John. "This makes me feel a lot better about what Caffrey got away with last time he was here," he said confidentially.

"Ten quid says Neal's going for the London Eye," John told Burke.

"You're on," Burke answered. "He's done too much climbing already, he's probably looping around to the Tate Modern."

"No, I tell a lie," John corrected, watching Sherlock veer away from the bridge, south along the Embankment, anticipating some move of Neal's. "Big Ben, do you think?"

"Westminster Abbey has this beautiful manuscript in the Undercroft Museum," Neal said, sounding only a little out of breath. "Always wanted to get a better look at it."

In the audience, money exchanged hands.

***

Near Westminster Abbey, Sherlock found a lump of wax.

When he split it open, there was a hollow inside; it was two pieces that had carefully been melted together to preserve, on the interior, the impression of a key. He turned it over and over, noting Neal's fingerprints on the outside, and then carefully took his keys out of his pocket. There was a slight hint of wax in one of the teeth of his house key.

"He's going to Baker Street," he announced. Then, thoughtfully, "If he looks in the refrigerator he's going to be very surprised."

***

Neal had, of course, studied the map of his chase-radius thoroughly. He'd looked into the security of several of the museums, and he'd also noted that Sherlock's home address, 221B Baker Street, was at the outermost northwestern rim of his radius. He'd wondered if Lestrade had set the edges on purpose, and decided the DI deserved more respect than Neal had given him.

After all, Sherlock had broken into Neal's home during the last chase. Only fair to return the favor. And anyway, Neal wanted a snack.

Half a block from 221B, there was a soft beep.

Neal, mindful of the wire, managed to stop himself from swearing again; he looked down and saw a yellow light on his tracker, right as his phone buzzed. He took three careful steps back, hid in the shadow of a convenient set of stairs, and answered.

"You're at the edge of your radius, Caffrey," Lestrade said.

"Yeah, I see that," Neal replied.

"Heading for Baker Street?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, until about ten seconds ago, that was the plan," Neal admitted, already rifling mentally through the other heists he had in store -- some created for this chase, some years in the planning and never executed because Peter and prison got in the way.

Which was when he saw it. A little sign, designed for tourists. MADAME TUSSAUDS.

"Caffrey," Lestrade called into the phone.

"Gotta go. Crimes to commit, you know how it is," Neal said, and hung up.

He had to circle south to get to it, moving around the perimeter of some huge building that was inconveniently in the way, but it gave him time to come up with a plan. There wasn't much to steal at Madame Tussauds, at least not of any value, and stealing technology from the nearby Planetarium was just crass. He could break into the gift shop and take something tacky to give to Elizabeth as a memento of the trip, but the one unspoken rule of the chase was that his crimes had to be _worth it_. Petty crime was just too easy.

He was still working out how to criminally defile Madame Tussauds, talking it out into his wire, when he reached the sidewalk across the street from the museum.

"I don't think I could get away with grabbing a wax model; they're not exactly small. An old friend of mine once told me never to steal anything I couldn't shove under my shirt, and it's pretty good advice. Anyhow, walking around with a wax model is really creepy," Neal added. "I guess I could steal one of the death masks. It'd be interesting to hold something in your hand that Tussaud actually touched. But that's probably creepier. And what am I going to do with a death mask?"

He cocked his head at the museum, thinking.

"Okay, let's assume death mask," he sighed. "Should give time for Sherlock to -- "

Something tightened around his neck, coming out of nowhere, and Neal jerked and twitched, struggling for breath. For a second he couldn't put the pieces together and thought the collar of his turtleneck had caught on something; he reached up and found a thick piece of wire around his throat. He managed to choke out " _Peter!_ " before he was tugged back into the shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter and Lestrade were engaged in a laconic debate about Neal's change of plans while Neal talked over them on the speaker. Neal had specifically left a clue that pointed to Baker Street, and Sherlock would have no way of knowing Neal couldn't get there because of the tracker. He'd probably figure it out, but there was a question of fair play involved. John was of the opinion that Sherlock should at least be told Neal's radius prevented him from getting to their flat; Peter and Lestrade were less certain.

"Well, we have to decide soon," Lestrade said, pointing to Sherlock's GPS, on the move towards Baker Street. "He'll be there, and it's not fair to waste his time."

"Call Neal," John suggested. "Have him send Sherlock a new clue."

Peter knew that the _I should have thought of that_ expression on Lestrade's face was probably mirrored on his own. He took out his phone, which would at least interrupt Neal's ceaseless talking, when there was a sudden scuffling noise over the speakers. Neal broke off in the middle of a sentence.

"That's not Sherlock," John said, staring up at the speakers. "He's not close enough."

They heard a whistling gasp -- wouldn't have known whose if Sherlock hadn't been murmuring about the element of surprise -- and after a second Neal's voice, weak and frightened, called _Peter!_.

Then, suddenly, Neal's tracker went dark. With it, about half the ambient noise over the speakers went away.

Immediately the audience erupted in anger; cries of "Foul play!" echoed around the room.

"That wasn't a run. Neal wouldn't cut his tracker," Peter said to Lestrade, who fumbled for his radio.

"All units, all units, Neal Caffrey is in the wind, suspected assault," Lestrade said. "Last known location, Marylebone Road near Luxborough, at the wax museum. It's probably a malfunction," he said to Peter, even as John was texting Sherlock that there was a possible default.

"That was an assault. I know choking when I hear it," Peter insisted.

"We'll have a unit there in thirty seconds," Lestrade said. "Just -- "

The sound came back. They listened intently as someone swallowed.

"Well...hello," Neal's voice came over the wire, sounding hesitant. Everyone fell silent. "Inspector Lestrade. Agent Burke. You...didn't...think...you could...play...a game...without me."

"That's not Neal," Peter said. "He's reading something."

"Moriarty," John said, leaning over Lestrade, who was giving furious directions on his radio. "Lestrade, it's Moriarty."

"I know!" Lestrade snapped.

"Who's Moriarty?" Peter asked, bewildered.

"Now...we're going...to play the game...my way," Neal continued. "Catch...me...if you can."

The audio feed died on a whine.

"Get Sherlock on the phone, now," Lestrade ordered. John was already dialling.

"Sherlock, it's Moriarty. He's got Neal," he said.

"Bugger," Sherlock's voice boomed in the auditorium. "Right, I'll get to his last known."

"How are you going to -- "

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock replied. "There are half a dozen police cars converging. I'll hitch a ride."

"What the hell happened to my CI?" Peter demanded. "Who's Moriarty?"

"John, explain this to him," Lestrade ordered, already running for the door, a few other officers joining him from the seats. The audience was in an uproar, and Sherlock was swearing over siren noises on the speakers. "Burke, stay here and run the search. You don't know the city, you have no jurisdiction, _stay here!_ " Lestrade repeated, seeing Peter open his mouth to object.

"Reinforcements are coming," John said into the phone.

"Shan't need them," Sherlock growled. He sounded livid. " _Nobody_ interrupts my game."

John hung up, grabbed Peter's arm, and pulled him up the stage, into the shadowed area under the auditorium screen.

"James Moriarty is a psychopath, obsessed with Sherlock," he said urgently. Peter felt his blood go cold. "He's responsible for two bombings and several kidnappings, plus a string of crimes I couldn't even hope to list. He's violent and _quite mad_."

"What does he want with Neal?" Peter demanded.

John gave him a frightened look. "Neal's a friend of Sherlock's."

***

There was very little evidence at the scene when Sherlock arrived; the remains of Neal's anklet, some scuff marks, a few threads from some fabric-backed tape they'd probably used to restrain Neal (handcuffs wouldn't work, as Sherlock knew personally and Moriarty would know from research). Sherlock went over it all with calm, keen eyes, slowly, methodically, but he was nevertheless finished by the time Lestrade arrived.

"There's absolutely no way to tell where he's been taken," Sherlock said. "I've gone over it."

"You reckon he's still alive?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh, undoubtedly. What would be the fun in killing him with no witnesses?" Sherlock said. He saw a look of anger in the other man's face, quickly shuttered away. It was not an unfamiliar reaction to things he sometimes said, but honestly, they didn't have the time to be _polite_. "What did Moriarty say?"

"Nothing," Lestrade said. "He made Caffrey say it."

"As precisely as you can."

"He said..." Lestrade fumbled and Sherlock bit down on an urge to shake the man. "He said we shouldn't have tried -- no, he asked, _You didn't think you could play a game without me?_ \-- gave my name and Agent Burke's. Then he said that we'd all play the game his way and told us to catch him if we can."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, studying the scuff marks again. "Why was he here and not at Baker Street? Why take him from here?"

"Your flat wasn't in his radius," Lestrade replied, as though it should have been obvious. Sherlock's head snapped up. "What?"

"It was inside the radius yesterday. I checked. I was expecting him to hit my flat sooner or later," Sherlock said. "How do you know it wasn't in the radius?"

"He tried for it and tripped the alarm. He decided to go after the wax museum instead."

Sherlock looked around him. "This is a much more ideal spot to set an ambush," he said conversationally. He glanced back at Lestrade. "The radius was altered. I suggest you find out who controls the monitoring system and beat a confession out of them. Moriarty's been hard at work. Any word since?"

"Nothing. Sherlock, I can't just -- "

"Then he's..." Sherlock interrupted, casting around for something, anything, to indicate where they might have gone. "They must be in transit. He'll be in touch again. Is there any way to get me in on Neal's wire?"

"It's going in and out," Lestrade said. "Jammed, probably. We can get you a headset and route it through next time it comes on, but Sherlock -- "

"Do it," Sherlock said. He was busy texting; _Come at once,_ he ordered John, and then, _He will be safely returned,_ to both Peter and Elizabeth.

***

Well, at least they hadn't Tazed him yet.

Neal thought there were two people, maybe three, when they grabbed him. He'd been shoved back into the shadows with tape wound around his wrists so tightly it felt like it was cutting off his circulation. A knife sliced through the tracker, killing it. _Not amateurs_ , he'd thought as a masked figure held a little light up to his eyes. It took them a second to adjust: the light was coming from a pager, old-school but expensive, with a large digital readout.

"Read it," the man had ordered. The barrel of a gun was pressed up against Neal's jaw, just in front of his ear.

The message had been disturbing, cryptic, and very, very worrying, but Neal had tried to keep his voice even, well aware that a lot of people were hearing this.

He'd barely finished before they'd thrown a hood over his head (déjà vu) and bundled him into a car. The transit hadn't taken long -- not more than ten minutes, and they'd circled one block at least twice. They hauled him roughly out of the car at the end of the journey and up a flight of steps (seventeen; he counted, just in case) and then up another (fifteen; sloppy architect, bad builder, or cheap remodel). He'd been thrown onto something soft, face-down, and the tape had been painfully ripped from his wrists, replaced with manacles so tight there was no hope of slipping them.

The full-body frisk had just been the icing on the cake, really.

"If you wanted to get friendly, you only had to ask," he managed through the hood and the soft thing under him. There was a ringing smack and a blaze of pain across his shoulders; it felt like a baton. He twitched and fell quiet.

Eventually he was pulled upright by his wrists, which _hurt_ , and turned to sit on the edge of the -- bed, of course, he saw when the hood came off. He was sitting on a bed, in an eerily tidy bedroom, and sitting in front of him was a small, eerily tidy man. Behind him were three much bigger, scarily _well-armed_ men.

"Hello, Neal," the man said. "My name's Jim. Jim Moriarty. I've been just dying to meet you."

***

John reached the crime scene in record time, only to find Sherlock had already moved on. He caught up with him ten minutes later and three miles away, at the Tower of London.

"Why are we here, again?" he asked Sherlock while Lestrade held a hurried discussion about emergency access with the guards.

"This is bollocks," Sherlock announced, pushing past Lestrade. "There's a bomb on-site. Probably in the White Tower -- less likely though possibly in the Jewel House."

That scattered the night guards and left the entryway open. Sherlock strode through like an oversized raven, stopped for a second to take his bearings, and then made for a large sign reading "FIT FOR A KING".

"Well, this is lovely," John said, following Sherlock through the easily-picked door and into a display room filled with medieval weapons and shadowed suits of armour. "Not at all creepy and unsettling."

"Impractical," was all Sherlock said. "But ideal for the purposes of planting a bomb. Help me search."

"Any idea what this bomb looks like?" John asked, peering into a display case.

"Bomb-shaped, I expect," Sherlock replied absently. He wandered into the next room. "Well, Henry the Eighth had a high opinion of himself," his voice echoed back.

"Most kings did," John murmured. "How do you know there's a bomb here?"

"Neal's next logical hit after Baker Street," Sherlock replied.

"Oh?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, without bothering to explain. "That's why I was coming here rather than chasing him down to Baker Street. Stood to reason."

John found that sometimes, as when he was searching a room full of creepy old armour for a bomb, it was easier just to agree with Sherlock. "Naturally."

"It's all just to distract us from the search, mind you, but until we know more..." there was a clank. John looked up. "...it's something to pass the time."

***

Neal had heard whispers about Jim Moriarty over the years, though never by name. People who spoke his name tended to die. Matthew Keller claimed to have met him once, but Keller was a lying asshole.

In America they just called him The Brit. In Hungary he was _Kis Ember_ , the Small Man. In Japan -- well, it was hard to translate into English what they called him, but it was something like _The Lucky Crook_. There were other names. He was supposed to be a myth. Then again, Neal was a bit of a myth himself sometimes, so he could relate to the stress Moriarty must be under.

Didn't explain the fact that Moriarty was totally nuts, though. Neal decided that was probably attributable to heredity.

Neal, wrists still cuffed, had sat through a little speech about who Jim was and what he did, which had confirmed that this crazy little bastard was the guy known across Europe and large chunks of Asia for his ruthless ability to _fix things_. He pulled strings and people jumped. Neal wondered if he was really on a hair-trigger or if it was part of some act meant to put Neal at a strange kind of ease: people generally didn't feel as threatened by madmen as they did by geniuses.

Now he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"All right," Moriarty said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. "I _love_ games. Let's have some fun. Let's take a step down the road together, shall we?" he said, and one of his goons used the back of Neal's shirt to hike him to his feet.

They left the bedroom and walked out onto a narrow little landing with hideous wallpaper, fifteen steps down to the next landing and through a door. Neal didn't dare look around openly -- no reason to incur Moriarty's wrath so soon. But as they walked into the room he cut his eyes to the right and swept them along, which was when he saw it.

To his knowledge, there were only four Neal Caffrey originals in private hands. June had two of the paintings he'd done for the exhibition that trapped the Red Painter; Peter and Elizabeth had one he'd done for them as an anniversary present; the fourth, a London skyline, had been a gift to Sherlock Holmes.

And there it was, hanging on a wall in the narrow, dusty sitting room they were passing through.

"What do you think of my hideaway?" Moriarty asked cheerfully as Neal was pushed none-too-gently into the kitchen. Moriarty sat down on a stool at a high kitchen table and patted a second one next to him. "Comfy-cozy, isn't it? I save this for my really _special_ guests."

"I do feel singled out," Neal agreed, sitting gingerly. Moriarty set a small box on the table; Neal recognized it from Mozzie's tech stash as a frequency jammer. Explained why Moriarty was talking so freely to a man visibly wearing a wire.

"I'm going to take your handcuffs off now," Moriarty said. "But I wouldn't run if I were you. I really wouldn't."

"Oh?" Neal turned slightly, putting his back to _London Skyline_. "Why?"

"This is your phone," Moriarty held it up. "But it's also a handy detonator. See, I make one call from this phone, and something somewhere goes...kaboom."

"Something somewhere? That's all you have?" Neal asked.

"Oh, well, I don't mind telling you, I've always wanted to blow up a museum," Moriarty said. "It'd be a real shame to see the British Museum burning, don't you think?"

Neal shrugged. "Antiques aren't really my thing," he lied.

Moriarty gave him a toothy grin, like he approved. "You'd feel differently about a blast in the heart of the National Gallery, then?"

Neal kept quiet.

"I thought so. Bracelets off!" Moriarty said, clapping his hands twice, and Neal stretched his shoulders as the cuffs were removed. "Now, we have a little bit of business to transact. Then on to pleasure. Here you are," he said, offering Neal the pager from earlier. "You say what I tell you. You say anything else, you'll get a nasty smack for being naughty. You say anything _rude_ , I might make something burn. Or someone. And you wouldn't want that."

Neal almost opened his mouth to ask why Moriarty didn't just write whatever message he wanted him to read, but a few seconds of reflection while Moriarty toyed with his phone put up a possible answer. Moriarty was secretive, and he obviously knew a little about Neal. Enough to know Neal could copy his handwriting if he had the chance.

Moriarty giggled. "Peter dear," he said, holding up the phone to show Neal's contact information. BURKE, PETER. BURKE, ELIZABETH. BURKE, HOME LINE.

He set the phone on the table, dialed Peter, and then hit the speakerphone. It rang one and a half times before Peter answered.

"Neal? Where the hell are you?"

Moriarty sat back and began to type on another phone. Neal, looking down at the readout on the pager, began to formulate a plan.

***

When Peter answered the phone, heart in his throat, there was a brief silence before Neal answered. It could mean one of two things -- he was hurt, or he was still voiceboxing for someone else. He had his answer when Neal's reply came over the speakers as well as down the phone line. This call wasn't so Peter could hear Neal; it was so whoever was with Neal could hear Peter.

"Safe for now I'm...in familiar hands...or soon...will -- " Neal cleared his throat, "be."

"Are you speaking against your will?" Peter asked carefully.

"In a manner...of speaking," Neal replied. Some of his words were oddly slurred; Peter wondered if he'd been hit in the head.

"Can I speak to whoever's with you?" Peter asked carefully.

"Don't play...coy with...me," Neal replied, and coughed again. There was a soft, remonstrative murmur. "You know who I...am."

There it was again, the slight slur on _am_. Peter frowned.

"Is this James Moriarty?" he asked.

"Have they told you...I'm insane?" Neal asked.

"They've told me enough," Peter said. "Is Neal okay?"

"Talking...to me...now...forming a bond?"

"Just trying to establish some communication," Peter said. "I'd like my CI back in one piece."

"You...don't want his...fingers sent...to...you in a box," Neal said. His voice was perfectly even.

"That's right. So tell me what we have to do to set this up," Peter said. "Tell me how I get Neal home safely. What is it you want?"

"I want what...Mr. Caffrey...owes...me," Neal said haltingly, and then in a rush, "Peter, I don't owe him anyth -- "

He broke off on a yelp of pain.

"Neal!" Peter called.

"I want what Mr. Caffrey owes me," Neal repeated, breath rasping in his throat. "Five hundred thousand...pounds or the...Titian."

A text message popped up on Peter's phone. He read it even as he was responding.

"What Titian? Neal, what Titian does he want?"

_Moriarty planted bombs. Evacuate the auditorium. Lestrade handling the rest. -SH_

There was soft murmuring over Neal's wire.

" _The Holy Family with Shepherd_ ," Neal said. "The one in the National Gallery's a fake -- " another yelp, and then heavy, wet breathing. "Mr. Caffrey got in...the way I...had invested...money...in plans for the...National Gallery and...he ruined...my...plans I want the...Titian."

"Neal, do you know where the Titian is?" Peter asked carefully.

Neal's voice was his own, this time. "Not anymore."

Peter sighed. Of course not. He'd probably fenced it. He was opening his mouth to respond when Neal spoke first.

"You have one...hour," he said, and the phone cut out. The wire crackled and died again.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Peter said. "I'm going to ask that all non-essential personnel leave the auditorium. I've just had reports that there may be a bomb."

The nice thing about police the world over, Peter reflected, was that they knew how to evacuate in an orderly fashion, and they rarely stopped to ask you if you were sure you wanted to stay.

***

"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Moriarty asked. Neal, nursing his left hand against his chest, kept quiet. "You'll heal up good as new, promise. Well. If you live, anyway. Dead bones don't knit -- hey, that sounds like an aphorism. Or do I mean a moral?"

"I don't have the Titian," Neal said, through gritted teeth. The first time they'd just punched him in the ribs, though that hurt badly enough; the second time, they'd broken a couple of fingers.

"Pish, I know you don't," Moriarty said kindly. "And I know you haven't got five hundred thousand pounds, and the FBI and the London Metropolitan don't negotiate with kidnappers. Good lord, do you think I really want that stupid painting? Great ugly thing. There's an off-chance Sherlock might come up with half a million pounds -- resourceful little scamp, that one -- but I doubt it."

"Then why ask?" Neal ground out.

"To keep them entertained while we talk. See, what I want -- what I really want, Neal -- is you. All to myself," Moriarty sing-songed.

"You should have tried flowers first," Neal said.

"Funny! You're a funny boy, I like that. You see, Neal, there are two ways this ends. The first way, I fake your death after a failed hostage negotiation, and you can come live a glamorous new life with me. Charming thought, isn't it? All the best puppy chow, I promise."

"Or?" Neal asked.

"Or I can just kill you," Moriarty said. "I'd hate to do that. Such a waste. But then what's life without a little frivolity?"

Neal pretended to consider it. On the surface, it didn't sound so bad; Moriarty had a lot of power, and Neal liked people with power. A new life of adventure was his for the asking. He'd be free of the FBI.

But not, after all, _free_. And Moriarty probably wasn't as careful with his pets as Peter was. And he was the kind of man who used guns. Not to mention he was crazy.

"I'm afraid you really do need to decide soon," Moriarty said earnestly.

"You said Peter had an hour."

"Well, technically _you_ said he had an hour, and either way that's just, well, it's a lie," Moriarty told him. "We both know the trade's not going to happen, so why wait?" He sat back, stretching. "We'll call back in half an hour. At that point either I pretend to shoot you, or I shoot you. Up to you."

"I'd like a little time to think," Neal hedged.

"Tick tock, Neal Caffrey," Moriarty said, and stood up. "Let's have tea. I wonder what's in the -- oh! A head!" he cried delightedly as he opened the fridge. "Someone left me a present!"

***

At some point in their search, Sherlock hesitated briefly; John saw it, and then saw Sherlock bend back to his investigation while putting his right hand to his ear where his headset sat. He nodded once or twice, and then reached for his phone a few seconds before it rang.

"Did you get that?" Peter's voice asked down the line, when Sherlock hit the speakerphone button.

"I heard all of it," Sherlock confirmed, still searching.

"Tell you anything?"

"Other than that they're on the first floor of a private home in a quiet street, nothing much," Sherlock replied. "No convenient foghorns, ticking clocks, or loudspeaker announcements, sadly."

"Think you could find the Titian?" Peter asked. Sherlock actually paused then.

"I was under the impression that the FBI didn't negotiate," he said.

"I'm not negotiating as the FBI."

"Ah. I see. Well, that gives one a brisk sense of purpose, doesn't it?" Sherlock barreled on before Peter could reply. "There are likely -- I'm not positive, he could be bluffing, but likely -- bombs planted at the National Gallery, under the floorboards of that auditorium, and possibly at the Design Museum on the waterfront. AHA!" he cried, crawling under a table display. "Found a bomb. Call you back."

"Sherlock?" John said hesitantly.

"Detonator here, fuse there." One long hand waved at the leg of the table. "At a guess I'd say that suit there is packed with enough explosives to bring down the building."

John followed his gesture, bending over to read the placard next to the frankly stunning suit of Japanese armour. "A gift to James the First by Tokugawa Hidetada, assembled by the personal armourer of Tokugawa Ieyasu, the first Tokugawa Shogun. Can you defuse it?" he continued, turning back to Sherlock.

"Likely. I'd stand well back in a doorway or something, if I were you. It'll still kill you if it goes, but they'll find more of your remains that way."

"Very comforting," John told him. "Can I help?"

"You can be quiet," Sherlock offered. John sighed and sat down next to the table where Sherlock was carefully disassembling something stuck to the underside.

It should have been suspenseful; it was always suspenseful in films. In reality, Sherlock grunted and talked to himself under his breath for a few minutes while rearranging things with a flick-knife from his boot. He eventually tossed some small metal bracket to the floor, sliding out from under the table.

"Right then," he said. "Bomb disposal team can deal with the rest. Ah! There they are," he added, brushing past a pair of men in heavy lead-lined clothes. "Detonator's off," he called. "Explosives are in the samurai. Be careful with it; it's four hundred and fifty years old."

Outside, Sherlock held up his phone to see how many bars he had and then hit the callback button.

"Agent Burke," he said. "I need you to re-play Neal's last call for me. There's something very off, but I need one more play-through...no, I don't know yet, that's why I -- please don't be tiresome," he snapped. " _Thank_ you."

He held the phone between them and hit the speaker button. Neal's voice emerged, tinny on a recording.

"Do you hear that?" Sherlock asked, after about ten seconds.

"He's slurring his words," Peter said, over the top of Neal talking.

"Yes, yes, but that's not vital. Well, not vital yet. Listen to the pattern. Four words, three words, two words, one word. Even when he's interrupted, he picks up the pattern. One word and three is four, then three, two, one again," Sherlock said.

"Counting down?" John asked.

"Those are artificial pauses. Moriarty didn't put those there," Sherlock said. "Four, three, two, one. Over and over."

"Some kind of math formula," Peter suggested. "Ten? One and zero?"

"No, it's not right, it's not..." Sherlock gritted his teeth in frustration. "Factor in...he's slurring the three and the two."

"House number!" John said. "No, wait. Numbers code?"

"Not unless you're aware of a thirty-second letter of the alphabet," Sherlock snarled. "Shut up, I'm thinking."

"'D - F - A' doesn't make any sense," John muttered to himself.

Sherlock snapped his head up, suddenly. "Found him, call you back," he said, and hung up the phone in the middle of Neal's recording.

"Sherlock!" John said, as Sherlock took off running. "If you know where he is -- "

"Oh, he's clever, he's so clever," Sherlock called.

"Who? Moriarty?"

"No! Neal! Come on, we have to get a cab."

"At this time of night?" John stopped, heaved a breath, and then took off again. "Sherlock, what's the code? Where is he?"

"Morse code," Sherlock said, running into the street. "It's Morse code, it's so simple!"

"H...SIE," John said, bewildered.

"The slurs are dashes. H - O - M - E."

"America?" John asked, as a taxi miraculously pulled up the street. Possibly the miracle had something to do with Sherlock's whistled summons.

"Home, John, home!" Sherlock bundled him into the cab. "Where's your gun?"

"In my locker at....home," John said, illumination dawning.

"221 Baker Street," Sherlock told the driver. "Fast as you can, a man's life may depend on it."

"Why aren't we alerting Lestrade?" John asked. "He must have units in the area."

"Don't be deliberately dense, John," Sherlock chided. "This is best handled privately. No flashing lights."

"Do you have a plan?"

"I have about nine minutes to make one," Sherlock announced.

***

Moriarty moved around the little kitchen like he owned it, which made Neal nervous and also completely creeped him out. Nervous, because if Moriarty had stolen his painting from Sherlock, then they could be anywhere and his message to Sherlock would be pointless; creeped out, because if this was Sherlock and John's home, and it seemed like it probably was, Moriarty was way too obsessively familiar with their kitchen.

"I don't normally recruit Americans," Moriarty was saying, spreading jam on a slice of slightly elderly-looking bread. "They tend to be self-absorbed. And _loud._ "

"You don't say," Neal replied, flexing his left hand carefully. Definitely a couple of broken bones. The dull ache in his ribs was beginning to get a lot sharper as time passed and the adrenaline faded.

"No proper appreciation of history or tradition, either. And Canadians! They're so...polite." Moriarty gave him another wide grin, the kind that said _I'm picturing myself as a shark right now_. "But you have special skills, Neal. And you're reasonably bright. Not Sherlock-bright, or me-bright, but bright enough. Jam?" he asked, waving the knife at Neal.

"No thanks," Neal told him. "I never eat when I'm looking death in the eye."

"Suit yourself." Moriarty took a big bite.

"Where'd you hear about all my special skills, anyway?" Neal asked, to keep him talking.

"Oh, here and there. You made such a splash in Amsterdam! And I hear you love the French, but I won't hold that against you. Think about it -- you could summer on the Riviera. New face, new name, no more boring FBI agents dogging your heels, no more Sherlock Holmes lording it over you, making you run for his amusement."

Neal studied Moriarty carefully. Undoubtedly he had a lot of good sources, but rumor was what it was, and it didn't sound like he had the full story on their little chases. It sounded like he thought Neal was some kind of involuntary participant.

"I do hate doing tricks for Master," he murmured. If Moriarty caught the real meaning of his statement, he didn't let on.

"I need a good right-hand man. Oh, I'd spare you the killing and the maiming -- I know you're fastidious, and I have people for that. I need someone with imagination, Neal. Not that I don't have plenty myself, but it's so hard to convey one's _vision_ sometimes."

Neal glanced at the guards standing at his elbow, facing him and Moriarty. For a second, he thought he saw a shadow move behind them.

***

John had been skeptical about this plan, but Sherlock was reasonably confident it would work. After all, he knew multiple ways to silently break into his own home -- that was just good planning. And if he went in through John's window, as he'd done twice before on test runs ("You came in through my window while I was asleep in the bed?" "Is that a problem? You didn't wake up.") he could pick up the gun on the way.

The issue was the waiting. Moriarty would call Peter Burke again; taunting was what he did, after all. The Titian was a smokescreen, and so were the bombs, but it kept Burke and Lestrade out of the way, at least. And probably nobody would get blown up.

He had to wait for the second call, because then Moriarty's hands would be busy, and the phone would be in use. There were two guards, each armed, and Moriarty undoubtedly had a gun as well. Neal was hunched over, sweating and looking reasonably miserable, but his hands were free, even if they were clasped to his stomach.

With the guards there, he couldn't get a clear shot at Moriarty. If he shot them, they wouldn't fall fast enough for him to shoot Moriarty before he shot Neal, or at least hurt him badly.

Sherlock withdrew, silently, to the landing, avoiding the one squeaky board and the bit of carpet that crunched (they really ought to have it cleaned; carpets weren't supposed to crunch) and texted John.

_On my next text, open and slam the downstairs door, then run away quickly. -SH_

_Understood,_ John texted back. It was so nice to have someone who didn't protest when you told them to run away.

***

When Moriarty called back, Peter answered the phone as calmly as he could.

"Neal," he said. "How they treating you?"

"Don't ignore me," Neal said, reading aloud once again. "I...am the one...you want...to...talk to."

"My mistake," Peter replied. "You looking after Neal for me?"

"This isn't...an adoption Agent...Burke this...is...a hostage situation and...I want my...Titian."

"I know you do, but an hour just isn't enough time. Hell, Neal's the one who covered his tracks. It might take years. Listen, let Neal talk. Let him tell me what he did with it."

There was a long pause, a faint noise; a voice giving some kind of order, and some footsteps.

"That...isn't...how this works I...want my Titian...or my...money."

"And I want to give it to you, but it's gonna be the Titian or nothing. Nobody's handing out that kind of money," Peter replied.

"Maybe I should just...shoot him now."

"No -- " Peter started, and a gunshot rang out over the phone. "Neal? _Neal?_ Jesus Christ," he said to Lestrade. "Drive faster!"

"We've got the lights going. If we go any faster we're going to mow someone down," Lestrade replied, but he stepped up the speed of the squad car. "You're sure they're at Baker Street?"

"I'm not as fast as Sherlock Holmes, but I get there pretty quick anyway," Peter said grimly.

"I have a response team assembling around the corner. We don't want to tip our hand. You shouldn't even be here," Lestrade added.

"Consider me a civilian consultant," Peter replied, shoving his phone in his pocket as they careened up the street and skewed quickly around a corner, where a police barricade had been erected. Lestrade bolted out of the car.

"Right, ready lads?" he asked, as someone tossed him a Kevlar vest. "We go in silent and fast. Any eyes inside?"

"We've heard shots fired," one of the cops volunteered. "That's all we have."

"They're on the first floor," Peter said. They all looked at him. "What? Sherlock said it."

"You heard him. Bust the door, focus on the first floor. Let's get this bastard," Lestrade said. The special response team crept down the block, slowly. Peter watched through binoculars lifted from Lestrade's car.

He heard the yell before he saw what was going on. A few of the police had stumbled back into the street and there was a faint shout --

"Don't shoot, you idiots!" someone yelled. "They went out the back!"

Peter spared a minute to think, cynically, that this was the oldest trick in the book. On the other hand, this time it seemed to be the truth, and he dropped the binoculars and sprinted down the block when he saw two dark-haired heads emerge through the front door.

Sherlock stumbled down the last step, Neal's right arm slung over his shoulder; Neal's head was lolling worryingly, but he seemed to be moving on his own. Peter arrived as Sherlock eased him into the arms of two of the special response team.

"Mind his left hand," he said. "At least three broken bones. Probably some cracked ribs. Took a nasty header."

"What in the hell do you think you were doing?" Lestrade demanded, as Peter helped them drag Neal towards a fast-approaching ambulance. Blood was pouring down Neal's scalp.

"Not invading with semi-automatic weaponry and smoke bombs?" Sherlock suggested. "He was in my _home_ , Lestrade."

"Am I going to find a body in your kitchen?" Lestrade asked.

"Not Moriarty's, more's the pity. I'd wager his brain is fascinating," Sherlock said, chill in his voice. Peter tipped Neal's chin up; his eyes were unfocused, glassy.

"It's really quite simple," Sherlock continued. "John lured the muscle downstairs. I waited for Moriarty to make a call, and when he raised the gun, Neal dropped to the floor and I shot the gun. Followed by the phone. I would have had his head next if he weren't such a quick little vole," he added. "Went out through my bedroom -- the fire escape. The muscle ran through the back door -- Mrs. Hudson will no doubt be livid about the mud they tracked down the hall. I thought it prudent to check on Neal before giving chase."

"Hit my head," Neal mumbled.

"Yes, your ducking needs work," Sherlock told him. Neal gave him a woozy grin, and then passed out into the embrace of the waiting paramedics.

***

The sun was well up in the sky by the time Neal woke. His ribs ached in a distant sort of way, and his left arm felt stiff. He lifted it and found a cast from elbow to knuckles, wrapping up over three of his fingers.

"Guess I should be glad he didn't break my painting hand," he murmured to himself.

"Good morning," a deep voice said nearby, and Neal turned his head to find Sherlock sitting at his bedside, closing some book he'd been reading.

"Hey, you found me," Neal beamed wide. He was aware that the wash of bonhomie he was feeling was probably the result of drugs. "Good job."

"Not soon enough, it would appear."

"What's the damage?"

"Hairline fracture of the ulna, three broken fingers at the proximal and, in the little finger, intermediate phalanges, no permanent damage. Bruised ribs, mild concussion, three stitches in the scalp."

"Your kitchen table has an edge on it," Neal complained.

"I'll have John put padding on it for our next kidnapping victim," Sherlock informed him gravely. Neal sat up a little bit, wincing.

"So," he said. "You got my message."

"It wasn't particularly subtle. I'm surprised Moriarty didn't decode it."

"He was busy giggling insanely. The bombs?"

"Nonexistent, except for the one at the Tower. To prove he meant business, I suppose. Bluff's as good as the real thing, under pressure."

"I pissed off big money, didn't I?"

"Of a sort. He's the mastermind of most of the more egregious crimes in Great Britain."

"I thought it was him," Neal said. "You get him?"

"No."

"But you will, right?"

Sherlock sat back. "Eventually."

Neal frowned.

"He's disappeared. It's what he does. But now he owes me twice -- last time John, this time you -- and I am known to hold a grudge," Sherlock said. "I doubt he'll bother you again; I imagine you've made your stance on things perfectly clear. I'm the one he wants to get at, anyway."

Neal eyed Sherlock. "How'd you know?"

"Moriarty's not interested in art," Sherlock said. "He's interested in talent."

"He ever try to recruit you?" Neal asked.

"No. He knows better. Perhaps he found you more corruptible, at least on paper."

"I wouldn't have."

"Yes, I know."

"Where's Peter?" Neal asked, sensing that Peter and his own newfound incorruptibility were probably related.

"Asleep." Sherlock waved a hand and Neal followed the gesture, craning his neck slightly. Peter was sprawled in a hospital chair next to a bank of medical equipment, head tipped back against the wall, dead to the world.

"Ah." Neal nodded vaguely. He turned back to Sherlock, who watched him impassively until he spoke again. "So. We both lost this one."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I think this counts as a loss for all concerned."

"You want to know a secret?" Neal offered, and Sherlock leaned forward. "I only took one thing from the Tate Modern," Neal whispered.

Sherlock cocked his head. "Oh?"

" _L'Etang de Trivaux_ ," Neal said. "Matisse. Fun to forge. Original's...I'll send it to you," he assured him.

Sherlock looked him up and down. "You won't be able to fly for at least four days," he said. "I imagine you could break up a portrait sitting across a few days."

"Bring a book," Neal told him, relaxing back into his pillow. "So, do we call the whole thing a draw, or what? Maybe we're just not meant to know who's better."

"Perhaps," Sherlock allowed. "It does seem to add to one's mystique."

"Okay. Tie it is," Neal said. He turned his head to grin at Sherlock. "Hey, wanna sign my cast?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who led a deprived childhood, the **[Rattlesnake Eggs Trick](http://dangerous-daring-blog.blogspot.com/2007/08/rattlesnake-eggs.html)** is illustrated here.  
>  50 Berkeley Square is indeed the **[most haunted building](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/50_Berkeley_Square)** in London, now occupied by **[Maggs Bros. Ltd.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maggs_Bros_Ltd)** , an antiquarian bookseller.  
> Batman **[climbed Buckingham Palace](http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2004/09/13/world/main643116.shtml)** once.  
>  I had Neal steal **[The Holy Family With Shepherd](http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/titian-the-holy-family-with-a-shepherd)** because I thought the shepherd kinda looked like Neal. Though as Junie pointed out, Joseph's head looks totally shopped in.  
>  I just plain like **[L'Etang de Trivaux](http://www.tate.org.uk/servlet/ViewWork?workid=9381&roomid=3652)**


End file.
